Confessions of an Insomniac
by HJaclyn
Summary: Josh can't sleep. Luckily, there's always stucco around.


Right then! I'm brand-new to writing my own fic, so my sincere apologies to any suckiness that may be encountered while reading this story. That said, I hope for both me and you that it doesn't suck. Enjoy!

Confessions of an Insomniac  
_A comedy_

**Characters:** Josh and Donna  
**Disclaimer:** Neither characters are mine; they are Aaron Sorkin's, under the care of Wellsatan, unfortunately.

I have actually started counting the stucco on the hotel room ceiling.

It's about 1:30 AM, and the alarm clock is so bright it's partially illuminating the room green. That, of course, aids my cause, because the stucco is casting shadows.

Every 30 or so, I lose count. It's very easy to do. With stucco, there's not much of a reference point. Personally, I start in the back left corner of the room by the door.

Why?

It gets my mind off of _it._

See, my room, by either the biggest, cruelest twist of fate or the wrath of Ned, who booked and assigned the rooms, is adjacent to none other than Donna's.

I could hear her television. I could hear her sink. I knew when she was in the shower, which as you can assume absolutely killed me. I heard her singing to herself, not a talented and incredible sound by any means, but it was still beautiful to me. I could hear her, and I wish I could say that was enough.

Her television is still on. She never turned it off before falling asleep, she never does. It's soothing to her, she claims. It just so happens to be one of the things keeping me awake. The noise is a horrible and constant reminder that there is someone in the room next to me, and I know that it's Donna.

The television goes to white noise.

I think I'm going to go crazy. Just let sanity go and embrace the psychosis that the white noise is tantalizing me forward to. Just drawing me in, second by second. Not because it's annoying, which it is, but that's not the thing. The thing is I know white noise wakes Donna up, which gives me less reason to just be lying here, counting stucco. She won't be lying asleep, not doing anything. She'll be awake, conscious, receptive, and she'll wander around for a while, to the bathroom and to the window. She'll get a glass of water, and I'll be able to hear the sink run. She'll probably even hum a little bit.

Meanwhile, I will wait for sleep, which I'm prepared to face may never come, or I will wait for the powerful urge to leap through the paper thin wall, which is closer to reality. Maybe I should just do that and actually face...never mind. It's 1:30 AM, and no one likes to be disturbed that early in the morning.

I want to be disturbed that early in the morning.

Preferably by a woman with watery blue eyes and soft blonde hair.

Just to let you know, sometimes I sicken myself too. But I am not, I repeat, I am not a stalker.

I really sound like I'm a stalker.

I'm not.

And hey, don't doubt it, that woman knows exactly what I'm doing right this moment too. She knows I'm counting stucco. Maybe she doesn't know that much detail, okay, but she knows I haven't slept yet, that I haven't even gotten close to sleep.

I wonder. Does she know what I'm thinking about? Has she always known, and is it just a misconception of mine that I've been able to hide my feelings so well? I happen to think I'm quite good at that sort of thing. I'm sneaky.

But is it even possible to hide something so strong?

...I hope she knows.

I hope she's known for the last eight years every detail of how much I feel for her.

Take that back.

I hope she's known for the last eight years exactly how much I love her. And have that be it. Sure, the language still stretches a little. But God, that first statement...anyway.

The sink is running. She starts humming a little tune, a stupid jingle for some phone company. I look at the back left corner by the door and count the first dot about twelve times before giving up. The sink turns off, and I breathe a small sigh of relief I hadn't even realized I was holding in.

I slowly decide I'm pathetic, then decide not to care. At least I'm pathetic about one Donna Moss, a wonderful, beautiful, genuine and loving creature, innocent, naive and tender, yet witty and sarcastic and bright and everything I ever imagined wanting since I was fifteen. I couldn't love anyone else, and there's gotta be something noble and some romantic adjective or something. If Sam were here, this would be a little easier.

The television turns back on.

Agony is one word which describes my current state.

From the other room I can hear someone chatting about AIG insurance. It sounds oddly like Abbey Bartlet; I'll have to ask her about that later.

I can picture her face, tired and illuminated by the light of the television screen, like I used to see it, sometimes on my shoulder, on those nights when I reluctantly had to wake her after watching a movie at my place after pizza and a beer that she had the majority of. She would look around confused a while, sometimes turn and bury her head into my arm or neck and grumble. She would mutter something I could never hear, and despite my pleading, she would never repeat.

It's the little things that count.

Like those three little words. Infamous. I love you.

She said those to me once.

Never you mind it was followed by, "when you're sedated." This is where I apply my selective hearing.

Eight years later, in a hotel in Denver, I severely wish those words were the ones I had written in the Alpine Skiing book. Or the ones I had told her Inauguration night. Or the ones I had told her as she lay in a hospital bed in Germany. Any time would have been good, really.

The television turns off again.

I sit in silence, and think it's finally time to close my eyes in some effort to sleep.

A voice from through the wall stops me.

It shocks me. My eyes snap wide open at the sound of it.

"Josh?"

It's Donna's voice, and it's saying my name.

I don't say anything for fear I was hallucinating, or for fear of jinxing the situation I'm now running through my head like a play in fast forward.

"Josh." Her voice calls again, soft and apprehensive.

I make some sort of squeaky noise. Finally I speak back.

"Yeah, Donna?" I say it softly, staying with the tone she set.

There's a pause before she speaks.

"Good night," she says.

"Good night," I say back, and smile, dimples and all, before closing my eyes and drifting off to sleep.


End file.
